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"That. It isn't finished." He straightens his cuff, and the easy expression is back on his face like it never left. "It's not going to be."

Then a door bangs above us and two men come down carrying a crate. The corridor isn't wide enough. Laszlo puts his hand on my waist and moves me, one step, his palm flat through the fabric, the heat of it going straight through me, and then my back is against the wall and he's in front of me while the crate goes past close enough to catch his jacket.

The men are gone and he doesn't move. His hand is still on my waist and his thumb is moving in small circles, barely there. I am so wet that I could scream, because this man does not get to do this to me while my father is feet away up some stairs, drinking champagne.

His mouth is close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin. His hand moves down, tracing through the dress between my legs, so lightly. Then he moves it back to my waist and continues to trace lazy circles there with his thumb.

"Step back," I say, and my voice comes out wrong, lower.

"Ask me."

"I just did."

"No. You told me to. That's not the same thing." His thumb is still moving. That tiny circle. "Ask me to stop and I stop. Right now, back to the party, hands off, the whole night. All you have to do is ask."

I open my mouth and nothing comes out.

He waits. And waits. His eyes don't leave mine.

Then he steps back, on his own. Without me asking.

"You said never," he says. "That's why I said we'll see."

The door at the top of the stairs opens, then footsteps one floor down.

Constantine leans in, takes in the two of us standing far too close, and his face does absolutely nothing. Somehow, that's worse than if he'd smirked.

"You'll want to come up and give your speech," he says. “Everyone’s waiting.”

“Tell them to wait some more.”

Constantine shakes his head and leaves while Laszlo brings his face close to mine, his eyes boring into mine, then he moves his attention to my lips for the briefest of moments.

“Guess I’ll make up something to say as we go.”

By the time I get up the stairs I’m out of breath. I'm breathing like I've run up six flights of stairs. My legs are shaking. My underwear is a crime scene. My ovaries have handed in their resignation and joined his side, and every inch of my skin that he touched is still burning like a handprint.

I was with Charles for four years. Four years! And not once, not on the best night, not under the most sensual sheets after the most luscious dinner did my body do what it just did in an uninviting space that smelled like dead people.

I am in so much trouble.

CHAPTER 8

Laszlo

There's only so much I can do with this corpse. A man in his late forties. No, I didn't kill him.

I don't kill people. That's not my MO. I make a request and my men take care of the rest. As for me, I prefer working on the dead. Today, I've been working on Mr. Price—that's his name. He needed a lot of painstaking care and patience. He was in a car accident, so the body came to me badly damaged.

His cheeks are still hollow, but it's definitely an improvement. I have added a little artificial skin where the chin was broken, and voilà, Mr. Price is … almost … as good as new. I did what I could, and as it stands at least the face no longer looks like it's been through a meat grinder.

I chuckle to myself. Another joke. Fuck it, I'm on a roll today.

An open casket is out of the question, of course. Thankfully, the family didn't ask. They have common sense.

I wash my hands and leave through the back door. No need to change. I've got dinner with Manon later, so a shower is going to be compulsory the moment this meeting is over. We're discussing territory, and apparently one of Valmont's men will be there. To be true, it took a bit of creative control to get Henri to agree to hand me his daughter.

Fuck, she's thrilled about it. Over the moon.